


sleeping lion, show me your dreams

by lazulila



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2019-10-05 00:09:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17314394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazulila/pseuds/lazulila
Summary: On the search for the Blue Lion on Earth, Lotor comes across a boy in the desert; and in him, sees something worth saving, a weapon worth harnessing.And so, Keith would grow up to be the Prince's trusted general.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crunchykoa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crunchykoa/gifts).



> An AU based on the premise of "if Lotor met Keith before Shiro had" that [AdrianFindsNemo](https://twitter.com/AdrianFindsNemo) explored, which I then wrapped myself up in like a blanket, and threw myself down a steep hill.
> 
> This version will mostly follow the major events of the canon series, obviously with some changes where due. Starts as Keitor, with Sheith endgame. I make no promises on when this shit will be updated.

 

Deep in the desert, the dust stirred beneath a ship that had come from very far away.

For this, Lotor had come alone; and alone, he stood on the hull of his ship, surveying the reddened plateaus. Dried fauna rustled in the sparse winds, while cacti remained proud and upright, whether they fell under a harsh sun or a cooling purple shadow.

It was here, that Lotor would unexpectedly come across a native child, a boy who'd taken one astonished look at him and made motion as if to flee. Lotor thought he would have to chase down a running alarm, but soon instead found a fight.

The thing was tiny and untrained, but he kicked and fought and bit to free his arm, thin enough to fit whole in Lotor's hand.

“Calm yourself,” Lotor beseeched, “I'm not here to harm you.”

Oh, it had taken patience. Unrelenting, screeching and cursing, he _fought._

By the time he'd exhausted himself, huffing and panting, the child still looked defiant. As if he could prevail, if only he tried hard enough.

Kneeling, Lotor caught his other hand without effort, again so small he had to be mindful not to hurt, and waited to also catch his eye.

Next to his pale skin, they were dark, his hair darker still, where it was now moistened with sweat from the heat and his efforts. When their eyes met and held, Lotor waited for the boy to catch his breath, just enough for him to snarl,

“Who _are_ you? Why are you here?”

With amusement, Lotor replied, “I could ask you the very same thing.”

As they were in a very remote area, Lotor did indeed wonder what a young thing was doing so far from home, so far from help. Seeing no fear, and feeling no threat, Lotor released him.

“I just...came out here.” Was his answer, gaze elsewhere when he heaped a pack bigger than his entire torso upon his narrow shoulders. He almost tipped backwards, before he found his balance. Lotor had to resist a laugh, or a helping hand. For his weakness, the child was proud.

“What for?” Lotor inquired, keeping distance; the boy, unafraid, remained wary.

“I dunno.” Now he surveyed the landscape, mind wandering and mouth set in a thoughtful line.

“I...felt something. Pulling me here.”

With a glance down at his radar, set to detect waves of quintessence, Lotor matched the innocent pulses of flickering light, with the direction in which the boy is searching.

_Something._

“Boy,” Lotor called his attention, and, focus broken, the boy glanced over his shoulder, almost annoyed. “What is your name?”

Hesitant, more from stubbornness than caution now, Lotor is sure, he answered with bite.

“Keith.”

–

 

Together, they wander into the valleys and crevices which make up the desert, under blazing sun. Keith sips water, splashes more onto his head. With growing fascination, Lotor allows him to lead, taking them in the very same direction his radar suggests.

“Keith,” He tries mildly, curious, “Why are you out here alone? You seem awfully young to be undertaking such a venture all by yourself.”

“I ran away.” Keith says simply, shoes skidding across the surface of a boulder, before he finds purchase with which to heave himself up over the edge.

“From where?” Lotor asks gently as he looks on. Above him, the wind rustles dark locks of hair, the ends of his jacket. When he finds his pack won't accept its bulk, he ties it around his waist instead.

Scoffing, Keith only gives Lotor his back.

“Do they not have orphanages where you're from?”

 

–

 

Hours roll past. From sundown, to night, to morning again. Keith keeps far from Lotor, at first only acknowledging him when necessary. With amusement, Lotor feels as if he were only being _permitted_ to be in Keith's company, as if he weren't up to Lotor's waist and only his soft, bare hands as weapons.

But he'd fought, for sure; Lotor had a bruise under his eye to prove it.

With patience, he waits until Keith's caution turns to curiosity. Until finally, he starts to ask Lotor more and more questions. About who he was, where he was from. What sort of place was it? Why was he here, and why hadn't he just killed Keith on the spot?

To these, Lotor gives tempered answers.

“I'm looking for something.” Stooping to examine a plant, growing from between the cracks in the soil, Lotor senses Keith pause.

“Looking for what?”

“If I find it, I'll show you.”

 

–

 

Eventually, they do. Only, it's Keith who finds it first, Lotor realizing with amazement he hadn't needed his detector at all.

In a cavern deep below the ground, they marvel before the might of the Blue Lion.

“What is it?” Slowly, Keith's footsteps take him to the glowing shield. With amazement, he lays his hand upon it, tiny and unsure.

“A weapon,” Lotor tells him, “One that could change the tide of the very future of the universe.”

 

–

 

Ultimately, Lotor decides that confirming the Blue Lion's presence on Earth is enough for now. He'll leave it here for now, until the time to retrieve it came to pass.

They make their thrifty camp in the mouth of the cave, Keith shivering slightly with the night air. The thin blanket he'd yanked from his backpack and drawn over his shoulders, not enough to ward off the desert chill.

“Cold?”

“ _No._ ” Keith insists. He stops rubbing his hands together, and instead wraps his arms around his knees, clutching them to his chest. Eyes on the ground, he rolls his bottom lip between his teeth and remains quiet.

Keith is the only human to know of the Blue Lion on Earth. While Lotor couldn't rule out the possibility that someone else could stumble upon it, the research he had conducted prior to landing suggested the technology of this planet's people was rudimentary at best, and ignorant of quintessence. It would be a long time yet before it would be discovered.

But this boy has impressed him. There's something to this defiant little creature, who had sensed the quintessence and must have some latent affinity for it. Potential lay in his veins, and that, Lotor senses all on his own.

“I'll be leaving shortly,” He says, breaking the silence. Under the light of Earth's single, bright, moon, Keith looks to Lotor. Behind that steely gaze lays the lonely heart of an abandoned child, and with everything to take into consideration, he poses a query.

“Would you come with me?”

 

–

 

An order, Keith would have defied out of spite. An offer, he thinks upon, before finally accepting. It was better to let the boy think it was his choice.

And so, a day later, with Keith swearing his entire life is already in the worn out bag he'd been hauling for days, Lotor leads them back to his ship. And that night, they're gone into the sky, Keith's eyes wide and his lips parting in amazement at the vision of space around them, and the image of Earth becoming a thing behind them. Once they're out of sight, he takes to boldly exploring the ship, examining foreign letters he can't read. Multi-colored screens cast harsh glows over the youth of his face.

“With the way you fought,” Lotor teases from his seat at the helm, “I'd think you were Galra yourself."

“Impossible.” Keith huffs.

–

 

Half a joke, it becomes even less of one when has Keith in the practice rings. Young, but fierce, a fury all his own. In a way that is so familiar. On the fringes of the room, curious soldiers watch. Wondering, about the little alien that had piqued Lotor's interest enough to bring back.

“You'll learn to fight,” He tells Keith, effortlessly sending the tiny thing sprawling onto his back some feet away. “You'll learn to survive.”

With a snarl, and another dive, Keith comes at him again, and again, ruthless in his pursuit and yet hardly the threat of a small insect against Lotor.

“You'll learn _patience_ ,” Lotor insists, for whether or not Keith's temperament was out of blood or youth alone, it was hard to tell. “You'll learn how to _bide your time._ ”

Again, and again, Keith throws himself at Lotor with wildness, covered in bruises and undeterred. Perhaps he was confident that Lotor wouldn't seriously hurt him. But that seemed too conniving for such nice and honestly budding blood lust.

Again, and again, Keith tumbles over himself, his momentum and weight thrown back with barely a stroke of Lotor's arm. The practice sword wasn't even necessary.

Exhaustion leaves his limbs shaking, knees quivering when he makes to stand again, only to have a strong hand clap his shoulder. When he raises his eyes, through the sweat-soaked bangs matted to his forehead, stray strands stuck fast to his temples and cheeks, he only sees Lotor's smile.

“You'll learn to fight,” Lotor assures him. “You'll fight for _me._ ”

 

–

 

Time moves on. Eventually, Lotor's curiosity wins out.

Suspicions are confirmed. Keith's tests bare all.

“You have Galra blood.” Lotor informs him.

The near-silent hum of the lights buzz to a splitting crescendo, brand his vision white. Machines at work in the distance, rumble like distant thunder. Everything else falls away.

“That's,” Keith swallows, his head spinning. Suddenly, his limbs don't feel so attached. “It can't...my father was human, and--”

“Your mother then,” Lotor sits, musing aloud, “Your mother must have been Galra.”

At Keith's hip, is the dagger he's had from Earth. His prized possession. Lotor knows this without asking. The only thing he has from his absent parent, and that which had launched his joke into the realm of possible truth.

Now, Keith's hand sets upon it, gripping the familiar sheath, running his fingers over the worn surface. Lotor watches as the truth sinks in, settling settling into Keith's face, where he takes a deep breath after each shuddering one, eyes set on the ground for a long time. He bites the inside of his cheek, as he often does when he's worried; Lotor waits, until he asks,

“How?”

“I'm not sure,” Lotor replies honestly, “For a Galra to have been on Earth is a curious thing. We've never invaded.”

“Never?” Keith raises his eyes to meet Lotor's. Searching, for answers not to be found.

Sadness and pride mix alike in Lotor's chest, when he answers with some degree of apology,

“If we had, you would have surely known.”

 

–

 

Over time, Keith grows.

In the beginning, the ways of the Galra had frightened and disgusted him. Little kindness had been evidently shown to him on Earth, but had hadn't known war.

“This is how things have progressed for thousands of years,” Lotor explained to him, “While I don't myself agree with some methods, this is the world the empire has created.”

Slowly, Keith had nodded, thoughtful.

Over time, Keith learns.

While still smaller than most Galra by far, he eventually became notorious as one of the fiercest of Lotor's fighters. He'd never have the brute strength of larger, purer Galra, or those crossed with another species of similar musculature, but he'd always have the speed. Marked with notch after notch of growing experience, his instinct had given his skill a deadly edge.

Proudly, Lotor watched, as foe after foe fell in his name under Keith's hands.

Among his generals, Keith walked the closest to him, and even if some whispered about the breech of rank, he'd stride beside Lotor as if he belonged there.

And he did.

The _nerve_ of him, it was grumbled. Only before the Emperor himself did Keith ever bow his head, a respectful distance behind Lotor.

Reputation grew to fill in rumors. Keith was of quick temper and few words, which was a useful, volatile combination. His glare could make Galra thrice his size, think twice. And his barks had bite; anyone who crossed him, challenged him, or Lotor, would be made to regret their derision. Many fingers, and lesser appendages, had been lost under his blades for insults and affronts alike.

He was unpredictable, they said. Unstable, all temper and arrogance, and wild when off the prince's leash.

Lotor knew him far better than all that.

Behind closed doors, they could indulge in conversations that left soft memories behind, tasting of mild wine and daydreams. The claws went away, and his youth came back in sloped shoulders and whimsical sighs. Left to his own devices, he would drift into long, contemplative silences, content to fiddle with his knife, or stare out at the deep realms of space, as if searching for a beacon.

If it weren't for Keith's loyalty, Lotor could wonder if he might one day go try to find it.

Though he carried out his orders with frightening competence, it was only because Lotor never gave him one that he would truly disagree with. There was an old nobility in to Keith's soul, a type of intrinsic honor that bordered on the naive. One that he would prefer not to tarnish.

There were lines that Lotor had to feel out, and tread carefully. Push too hard, and Keith might really leave, to find the star that called him so.

Maybe it came across as favoritism; maybe it was. Behind all the walls, his human heart bled kindness. For all his skill, he deplored cruelty, and before he was Lotor's most feared warrior, he had been a child that cried in his room at night, for the love of a father he'd lost and whose grave he'd left behind. Something in him was still lost, a piece to him that Lotor had little inkling on how to fill.

When he began to wonder if maybe he could...Lotor never knew, for sure.

In their world, to care for anything was a danger. A look into his hardened eyes would dissolve into tenderness beneath his attention. Gentle, and aching. Familiar, and peculiar; in those moments, Lotor wondered.

“My lord? Did you need something?”

“No, Keith.”

Lotor would maybe press a hand to his shoulder, in assurance to his general as well as himself, and turn away.

When apart, and in need of comfort, his mind often reverted to images of Keith, profile lit by glowing sunsets of planets they'd seen, and left. He'd think of Keith fastening his armor, fixing his under suit, moments Lotor would be tempted to reach and aid him, as if he needed it. Who'd surely only give him a curious look, for it had been years since he had needed any such help.

An excuse, if he ever were to act upon it. But as it were, every casual touch, sparse as they were, left nerves humming, and lingering, and wondering.

And one day, bored, Lotor spares glances at the politely ticking graphs, and floating, colored letters, while he works at his desk. Scarcely a few paces away, Keith stands silent, while he looks over reports. Fingers, long and gloved, whisk nimbly across the screens, the glow treading softly across his face, more sharply over his armor.

So alone, here he sits, with his most trusted general. Innocuously, the lights hum, and the floor stubbornly sterile and smooth beneath his boots, and he can hardly stare at the floating screens before him another moment.

Keith was grown now. The muscles had layered to fill his armor, and young adulthood had overtaken the childishness on his face. War and battle had hardened him, but his heart hadn't changed; fierce and wild and full of emotions barely tempered by discipline. Only barely.

For years beyond reasonable memory, Lotor had stripped himself of everything he could deem an indulgence. Ambition kept him focused. He had allowed himself no distractions, and it was only recently he had begun to feel the depth of such absence. It left him feeling weary and cold where he had not before, and he wanted the warmth of a fire.

The heat of a thousand distant suns, the embrace of waters warmed beneath their blaze. A comfort to take into a cold desert night, and chase all else away with a fury.

Keith was fire incarnate.

Lotor lifts himself from his chair, and closes the distance with a few well-placed strides. Not sensing danger, Keith remains focused, though Lotor knows he's aware of his presence. He's got one arm wrapped over his chest, the other now bringing a knuckle to rest thoughtfully on his lip.

Only when he gently sets a hand on Keith's shoulder, does his general look up.

“Lotor?” Keith questions more with his gaze than his words. “Something wrong?”

He knew that respect, unwavering and unquestionable, would never had let Keith voice any affections out loud, should he have them.

Distantly, Lotor feels the stone mask of his face soften. It was a shame. Keith was so adept at reading the winds of a battle, but so terrible at reading how a face could also show a heart.

But he'd fancy that he, himself, wasn't so oblivious. So he's sure, or almost sure, as they look upon each other. Long, and quiet, and laden with the growing weight of the air around them.

Slowly, he reaches with his hand, wishing he didn't have gloves on. He could only surmise the softness of skin, the silk of black hair that brushes across his fingers.

Without breaking their steady gaze, Keith leans his cheek into the palm of Lotor's hand.

And smiles.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

All that he had, all that he was today, was because of Lotor.

Everything he had learned, and saw, and became, was because of the whim of a conqueror's son, from a a world he had never knew of, into a life he couldn't have imagined.

It hadn't been easy; but he wouldn't admit it. Not out loud.

Early on, his hands had blistered, until Lotor had noticed the blood on the weapon hilt, and half dragged him to the infirmary.

“That's what you get with weak ones like this.” The attending nurse had chided within Lotor's earshot, none too kindly as he rubbed a stinging, blue disinfectant over the wounds. Keith had grit his teeth and held back frustrated tears, lowered his head so Lotor wouldn't see.

He wouldn't be weak.

Not forever.

The lessons he learned from tutors and classrooms on Galra history, military knowledge, cultural education, were supplemented by the ones he learned in what passed as a play yard. The Galra were contemptuous of his position among them; not a captive, but a peer, famously hand-picked by their prince himself.

Above all, strength was the factor by which respect was won. Fights broke out and were only encouraged by the watchful eyes of their teachers, looking for the most promising, the most aggressive, the ones who  _won._

And Keith did not win.

Back on Earth, he had always been the undisputed victor. The _problem child,_ breathed exasperated teachers. A reputed outcast whom the even older kids wouldn't dare challenge. Here, they had learned to fight from the time they could walk. He could stand a chance against maybe one or two of them on his own, yet when three and four piled onto the dogfight, none in Keith's favor, he stumbled back to Lotor, bruised and bloodied.

Studying the state of him, Lotor had set his jaw, and determined the worst of Keith's fears.

“You are weak.”

The shame bit cold and hot all at once into Keith's young heart, and the tears came again to his eyes.

Then Lotor had set a hand upon Keith's hair, stroked through it, and declared,

“But you will not stay that way.”

And the tears fell, and in the storm of emotion that felt far too big for his chest, Keith cried into his hands.

_Please believe in me._

In the years that followed, Keith couldn't remember whether or not he had said the words aloud. But regardless, Lotor had indeed put faith in him.

With resolve folding layer after layer of steel over his heart, he fought, and bit, and clawed. And then he began to  _win._

“I am Galra,” He snarled the reminder at the opponents that fell at his feet, “I am half, but I am  _Galra._ ”

The blood would rush through him, searing his veins and branding his skin raw from the inside. As if hearing his proclamations, his body seemed to respond; in the late years of his teens, his canines grew full into fangs, and pale violet marks slithered their way up over his face, in even fainter lines across his back and down his arms. In some moments of a dogged fight, he could feel something shift within him, and once, after a bloody flash of a win, he saw his reflection in a mirrored wall.

And his eyes shone yellow.

“I am Galra,” He whispered to himself, bent low over the sink in his private bathroom. “I am  _Galra._ ”

He didn't relish violence, but it came to him so _naturally_. It explained, he thought, how that spoke to the makeup of his very genes. Why he could never quite belong on Earth, and with humans, among whom he had roamed the first half of his life, not knowing his gruesome purpose. Carved into his very bones, was a legacy of war.

Still; how he hated bloodshed. Hatred ruthlessness. Hated how their soldiers trampled upon the flowering peoples they came across.

How unnecessary, it all seemed.

“Things will be different one day,” Lotor told him, again and again, whispered in private after they learned of some new atrocity. “When I take power, this will not be so.”

So Keith believed.

So Keith fought.

He would wage Lotor's secret war with him; he would conquer and win for the prince. The prince, who abhorred the bloodthirsty Galra empire into which he'd been born.

Among the society through which he now walked, Lotor held his shoulders with confidence and pride. Although Keith gathered that he was also, like himself, mixed—a problem, in a society that praised lineage—it didn't seem to matter to him. He wore it like a mantle, and encouraged Keith to do the same.

“Let them say what they will.” Lotor would say.

“Being mixed gives us a unique sort of strength. We walk among others with a view they don't. It makes them underestimate those like us.” Lotor brushed away the long bangs that hung over Keith's face, tapping the tip of his nose in the odd shows of affection he sometimes bestowed. “You will learn. Time, and pain, are both good conduits to lessons.”

He was a cutthroat, when need be. But he'd been willing to take in the likes of him, raise him into a warrior near unparalleled, and keep him in his company.

Something _useful._

Lotor's acceptance, and his faith, had given him a reason to be, a fight that he would take to the end.

There would be an empire, one day, that did not thrive on warfare, didn't rest its foundations on bones and blood and tears. Whole civilizations did not have to be lost in conquest; lives that might be otherwise lost, could be spared.

For that, Keith would kill.

_The prince's_ _pet_ , people sneered.

Keith didn't care.

He didn't need anyone else.

As long as it was Lotor, Keith didn't mind being kept. As long as he could follow those proud shoulders, let his tiny footfalls echo behind the stately clicks of Lotor's boots upon the long hallways of endless Galra ships, he would be content.

They had, perhaps, gotten too familiar; many a night, Lotor would sit at his desk, and coax a yawning young Keith to lay his head in his lap, letting him drift between dreams with a hand to absentmindedly pet through his hair. How many times had Lotor casually slung off his armor, when a servant should have been the one to do it? Knelt before Keith to undo it himself?

...Admiration blooms into affection.

“Don't be embarrassed, or ashamed.” Lotor would assure him, misinterpreting the flush on Keith's face if he took it upon himself to tend to his newest bruise, his growling library of little scars from bouts in the practice rings. Keith couldn't look him in the eye, couldn't correct him. Only felt his hair being pushed back as Lotor clucked his tongue at the gash on his temple.

He wanted to walk tall, and yet couldn't even level with Lotor's shoulders on his toes, who only chuckled into a fist when he noticed. Who would set his hand upon Keith's shoulder, and unknowingly left an imprint that would linger for hours afterwards.

Oh, how Keith wanted that weight.

....How selfish, his desires felt to be.

Keith was, after all, only Lotor's soldier. Meant to be a weapon.

Resolved: what a good weapon he would be.

With that in mind, he swallowed down shards of hot glass, let them burn out and down to a simmer. Over time, they ached less like a sudden brush fire, and more like a hearth. Something he knew to be there, but also something he tried to no longer acknowledge.

Even if he did still see its glow, if he closed his eyes.

And he does, when, one day, Lotor's hand reaches, and sets upon his face. Unknowingly, perhaps, setting alight his reluctantly hopeful heart.

“Keith,” Lotor calls softly.

And Keith opens his eyes.

–

Let them wonder.

So Lotor thought, before he banished anything else from his mind, besides the body in his arms.

Keith had not hesitated a moment when Lotor lifted his chin with a finger, and brought him close enough to kiss.

In the days that followed, they stole such moments. When his hands could be bare, Lotor could finally know better what Keith's skin felt like, how his lashes felt when they fluttered shut across his cheek. Unhindered, he could run his fingers through dark hair that had grown down to the nape of his neck.

While no eyes were on them, he could press kisses to Keith's hand, and watch the blush screech its way over his cheeks and up to the rounded tips of his ears. Delighted even more, when Keith could be so bold as to return the gesture.

He came to know how hot Keith's skin ran, how his ferocity translated to passion. Nights of sweat-scented sheets and fine embraces rewrote all their lines.

Arms around a frame so small and yet so unbelievably full of power, Lotor felt Keith lay his head against Lotor's chest, with all the tenderness one might imagine in a lover. Romance had surprised him, when he hadn't spared it any consideration. Especially precarious, given these crucial days.

Rumors of Voltron have been resurrected anew from the legends, and the empire is scrambling around them.

But for now, he can tilt his head down, just enough to find the top of Keith's head, and press his lips upon a crown of dark hair. He can listen to Keith sigh softly against him, and shift in his state of half-sleep. Sweetly tamed, warm and exhausted in the most desirable way.

Blearily, Keith moves closer, sheets shifting around him, and nuzzles into the shadowed curve of Lotor's neck, where he holds his lord close and protected.

Just for now, they can pretend war is far, and they are happy.

Just for now.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Mere rumor turns to reality: Voltron has returned.

Led by the former Champion of the Galra arenas, miraculously escaped and returned with a fury, and an Altean princess long thought to be dead and lost to history; Voltron, and its paladins, have begun to streak havoc and chaos across the Galran forces they encounter.

They're far away from the main battlefronts, with Lotor technically in exile. No one's sure how the real thing will stack up to the legends. After all, they're stories. How powerful could one weapon really be?

Powerful enough, as it turns out.

Enough that some months later, Keith is holding his hand to the scanner, making sure no one is around to see him slip into Lotor's quarters. His own room has seen less and less of him, lately. Nonetheless, it's not until the doors close behind him, does he relax, exhaling loudly.

Armor clicking loudly open as he walks through the lavish hallway, he pauses to balance the chest plate beneath one arm. It's silent.

“My lord?”

“Here.”

Following the lull of Lotor's voice, Keith, unsurprisingly, finds himself in the study.

Leaning far forward in his seat at his desk, Lotor is peering at screens and tabs, full of various subjects of studies and research. His fascination with his lost Altean heritage has never left the doors of his study. That being so, Keith rather not interrupt him, but...

“My lord,” He comments softly, laying a hand on his liege's shoulder. “We have to go.”

Reluctantly, Lotor gradually lifts himself to relax back into the seat. In a display still somehow new and surprising to Keith, Lotor lays a hand over his.

They fall into quiet, comfortable and warm as the lamp light. It lends Keith just a moment of boldness, enough to lean down and press a kiss to Lotor's mouth. That too, feels clumsy.

Against his lips, he feels a smile brew, forgiving him. Lotor turns in his seat, and Keith feels a hand on his waist.

“We'll depart shortly.” Lotor concedes. Resting his temple against the flat of Keith's stomach, he hums when fingers part through his hair, their strength curled back to something gentle. “Only if you come back with me.”

“Where else would I be?” Keith muses softly, wondering aloud.

“Nowhere else, I would hope.”

“No, my lord,” Keith promises with a kiss upon the crown of his head. “Never.”

–

By the time they are striding through the large doors to the massive hall, they have slipped their masks on. Armor, over their beating hearts.

Steel walls and glowing magenta traces make strict lines from behind dark colored tapestries. Anyone with a hint of rank stands with straightened backs and grim faces. They greet each other with clipped tones and wavering grins. Dozens, all told, their muttering drifting a dark cloud to the arched ceiling.

While Lotor walks with his chin high and gaze steadfastly forward, Keith's eyes search; so sharp and feral, one could almost hear the snarl in his throat.

Any hostile movement, and the prince's pet would bite.

Every acknowledgment towards Lotor is met with a polite word, and an unreadable stare; room is made easily for them as they walk through the crowd.

When the meeting begins, the hall falls silent. At the podium, a decorated Admiral stands firm, proud to the jutting edges of her pauldrons. At her words, the soldiers stand at attention while she pulls up a gruesome presentation.

Casualty numbers, damage tallies. Updated maps of territories lost. Whole civilizations are in rebellion, aided by Voltron and padded by rebel forces, leaping out from the shadows and decimating entire outposts and bases.

She flips through picture captures of the lions, tearing through bases and rending ships into scrapyards, Galran armor and bodies among the debris.

Finally; images of its fledgling warriors are cast across the massive screen.

The air rushes out of the room, as swiftly as if there were a breach in the wall.

Every eye in the room swerves to Keith.

Beside him, Lotor doesn't so much as flinch.

The moment lasts forever, and yet hardly a few seconds; the presenting Admiral clears her throat, and continues.

They wouldn't be mobilized yet. Emperor Zarkon is as determined and steadfast as ever in his efforts to bring glory to their empire. Although an unexpected nuisance, Voltron would fall beneath their heel.

“If by chance you are to encounter them,” She calls their Galran blood to rush, voice loud and resolute. “You are to show no mercy. Dead or alive, they will answer for the crime of rising against our honorable empire. Should the lions or Paladins be captured, they are to be brought to Emperor Zarkon.”

“Let us go now,” A general beseeches, “Let us lend some of our aid in the efforts to crush Voltron and their rebels. Before they make any more mockery of us.”

“You have no such orders. Until that time were to come, you are to continue doing as you have, and keeping our reign in these outlying territories secure. That is your vital duty. Do not forget that.”

Aptly scolded, he salutes, and bows his head with a stately, _“Vrepit sa._ ”

 _“Vrepit sa._ ” All but two voices hum in unison.

Vrepit sa.

–

“They don't trust you.”

A metallic clang rings sharp, as Lotor's staff slams into the brunt of Keith's blade; he huffs, slightly, with the effort of turning the sword, diverting the force enough so he can turn out of the strike that follows.

With a graceful roll across his shoulder, Keith barely skims the ground before coming up on his feet again, facing Lotor and ready for the next blow.

“They have never trusted me.” Keith clarifies, circling lightly on the front of his feet. Weapons raised, he keeps his stance up, brows arched low in concentration.

“They trust you _less_ , now.” Lotor specifies, and lunges.

Keith holds his ground; evades swiftly, swivels over his back leg and into Lotor's space. Swings upward with his sword, only to be met with a defensive smack along the inside of his arm, and barely keeps his grip.

Dropping down, he aims an upward kick instead, and Lotor only laughs and back steps out of range, bringing the staff down in the space Keith's head occupies a split second before he sees it coming.

The crack of the weapon against the ground echoes in the spacious chamber of their private practice ring. Meager dust kicks up where their feet dance in violent tango, catch in the light.

Violet lines glow along the wall panels, catch the flecks of sweat gathering at their brows and strands of flyaway hair.

Keith huffs, catching his breath with a raise of his sword.

“Will it be a problem for you?”

Lotor's mouth quirks in one amused, terse motion.

“Nothing we cannot take into account.” His boot clicks cleanly on the hard floor, chin raised in the deadly elegance that catches the air in Keith's lungs in an entirely different way. “Nothing we cannot handle.”

Fingers flexing one more time in readiness, Keith pounces.

Clashing and whirling about each other, they traverse the ring in blurs and stops of motion, the blows brutal and the punches never pulled.

When Keith catches a swing of Lotor's staff in the crux of his twin swords, they catch eyes, and lock; he's breathing hard, leaning in, the lines pulled tight and stressed around his dark gaze. Pained.

“....I don't want to be a burden to you.”

Lotor takes in the worry in his face, the weight of his words.

With a shove off, and a flash of light caught off the shine of a blade, they slide back into the flow of their match.

“You are no burden.” Lotor grapples Keith's arm, turns him into a throw that launches him across the ring. As he expected, Keith's gone with it, landing gracefully and staring him down; he can feel the pride swell in him.

Oh, the strength that shines in those eyes.

Not bothering to suppress the smile, he steps carefully forward, idly pulling his weapon into striking posture. “Nothing has truly changed. If anything, this may be an asset.”

Keith carefully circumvents the outside of the ring, focused in on how Lotor approaches. Carefully, slowly; strategically. He knows that Lotor is good at directing his attention, knows how to catch him unawares, and that it's only by his gifted reflexes that he's ever left standing.

“How so?”

“Voltron,” Lotor says lightly, knowingly, “Is making a stand against my father's Empire. There may come a time when we need to stand with them, if we do intend to overthrow him. A familiar face might sort out any misgivings they have to working with a Galran prince.”

“...You think they'll work with us just because I'm from Earth?”

“I think,” Lotor circles him, shoulders drawn tense. Prepared. Ready, as Keith is. “That it may help. And I think that you, being from Earth, will help give us specific insight that no one else has.”

Gritting his teeth, Keith edges inward, his steps careful.

“That's too risky. They may not be the _sentimental_ types. _”_

“It isn't our _only_ strategy. Only an option to keep in mind.”

A smile pulls higher at Lotor's mouth, and bares a playful smirk.

Biding his time. Waiting.

It's there, in the cadence of his breath, in the careful coiling of his muscles; Lotor knows Keith will break. Patience has never been his virtue.

Sure enough, he snaps, leaping forward. He attacks directly from the front, with enough force behind his swing that Lotor has to balance his weight, tip towards to meet him properly. Boots skid along the floor beneath their combined weight, but Keith can't overpower him.

Lotor wonders if he actually wants to.

With a flourished grin and a push forward, weapons trembling beneath their struggling grasps, Lotor leans so far forward, he feels the tickle of Keith's bangs on his forehead.

“Did you think I would not consider everything?”

Keith bares his teeth, his heavy pants pouring breath as heated as the searching, scathing look he meets his lord with.

“I know you will,” Keith grinds forward, muscles flexing hard beneath the thin stretch of the suit. He can't match Lotor in brute strength, but he'll try. Stubborn as ever. “But Voltron? An ally?”

“We'll see.” Lotor hums, feeling the burn in his arms with the sustained effort of keeping Keith back.

_“Unlikely.”_

Lotor hums, and bracing his arms to steel, shoves forward, throws his weight to the side to force Keith off center; force him to retreat, to submit and duck out of the inevitable mismatch.

With another turn of his sweeping legs, he's back on his feet, and raises himself to match Lotor's easy stance.

Silently, they exchange glances, chests beating as drums. Offer out their weapons, and casually toss them in a switch.

The staff isn't Keith's favorite weapon by far. Although it had reach he didn't, he had learned to adapt his fighting style to make do without one. The staff overreached the range he was comfortable with.

Nonetheless, he would be sure to be as deadly with it as he needed to be.

His prince, on the other hand, was as adept with any weapon in his hand.

Under a blizzard of quick, precise strikes, Keith barely dodges, leaning out of the way of the practice blades; they wouldn't slice, but they wouldn't bruise pretty, could break a bone or two. In retaliation, he can mostly only parry, stepping in and out of their exchanges.

Admires the bold attacks Lotor throws at him, the assured movements that leave Keith winded.

“It may be necessary.” Lotor snaps his attention back with a downward swing that just barely whiffs by Keith's shoulder, who pivots on his foot before swinging his leg in a roundhouse that Lotor defends with a raised arm. With a soft grunt, he throws the weight off, sending Keith leaping back to collect space between them. “They have rebel backing, and more coming out of the woodwork. They've posed the greatest threat to the Empire as we know it. It's a collective force we may be able to take advantage of.”

“I won't be winning anyone over just because I'm part human,” Keith says resolutely, pausing to wipe a bead of sweat from his temple. “If that's what you're thinking.”

“Oh?” Lotor teases with his tone, “Won't you try, at least?”

“I've never gotten along with them,” Keith scoffs, “That's part of why I left Earth at all, remember?”

The Paladins would know, as soon as they look at him.

He didn't belong.

He's not human, anymore.

He's only Galra.

Something shifts beneath the surface of Lotor's loaded stare. Contemplative, he almost misses the instant when Keith is lashing out at him again, a quick strike meant more for surprise than power, and it nearly throws him off.

“All that aside,” Lotor cuts a devastating arc with both swords, follows Keith's dodge with an elbow jab that almost catches his nose, “At the very least, they are proving a distraction. Unless they interfere with us directly, we can leave them be.”

Over and over, they circle and dash and clash their weapons until their aching muscles begin to sing.

“Do you think they can succeed? Help overthrow your father?” Keith lunges in, staff whirling expertly in his hands, rapping violently against the series of deflects Lotor raises.

“Perhaps.” Lotor admits, “We don't know enough about these Paladins yet.”

Keith sweeps the floor, not surprised when Lotor avoids it. Taking his chance, he slides in, swings up the end of the staff to snap against the hilt of Lotor's sword, knocking his grip.

“And you,” Lotor smiles slyly, “Keep an open mind.”

With a skeptical shrug, Keith concedes, “I follow orders.”

Lotor barks a laugh.

“You certainly do.”

With a wicked grin to match, Keith drops his weapon, leaving it to clatter on the floor between them. Startled, Lotor barely has the chance to drop his own in time to grapple with the quickfire strikes Keith unleashes.

With another chuckle, he entertains the turn to bare fists.

Lotor's technique matches Keith's evasiveness. He's wily and quick-thinking, hits back as hard as he receives.

Around the ring they weave, every contact satisfying.

They laugh and they snarl, circling predators eager for a kill they won't take.

Breath comes heavy, and hunt becomes play; Lotor leads him on a chase, watches Keith go from focused to enthralled.

In a stunning display, Keith leaps, is in the air, a kick aimed well for a devastating blow.

It's one of his signatures; Lotor braces himself for the strike, takes Keith's propelled weight in stride, reigning him into the start of a grapple.

But Keith was prepared to be thwarted.

Instead of following through, he slings himself back, back arching; under the unexpected weight shift, Lotor lurches forward. Suddenly, it's a ground fight, as his knees slam against the floor.

“That's a new one,” He grumbles, and promptly finds himself warding off the starts to one of Keith's bone-breaking holds.

Keith only smirks.

Lotor can't say he despises having Keith below him, hand on a muscled thigh.

Yet they're not done.

They wrestle; it's a dirty, undignified way of fighting, yet that's somehow how the real thing goes.

Eventually, they do call truce; flat on his back, Keith looks up at his lord with a heaving chest and a wicked, white grin; a view Lotor admires with a hum, running his hand the front of his sparring armor.

“Where did you learn that maneuver?” Lotor bends down, a devilish cut to his smile.

“Made it up.”

“You did? On the spot?”

“Mmhmm.”

“....Aren't you full of surprises. Reckless.” Chiding with a cluck of his tongue, Lotor brushes some hair off Keith's neck.

Mirroring the gesture, Keith tucks a stray lock behind Lotor's ear.

“It worked.”

The room is carefully regulated for temperature and humidity. While they catch their breath, it's nice to let the vents do their silent work.

It's with a knowing eye that Keith watches Lotor pull himself up with a thoughtful hum, snugly in his space. Arms splayed out to the side in mock submission, his leg twitches at the feel of Lotor's knee sliding beneath his thigh. Obediently, he raises it, lets it permissively settle against the hip positioned above it.

His prince was no tyrant, but he would conquer when he wanted to; and he wanted Keith.

So he would have him.

Keith would let him. Beg him, if he hesitated. Has, in the past.

“My dear,” Gone dusky and low, Lotor's voice sends a trickle of sparks through his veins, down to his fingertips. “You've learned so much.”

“It's thanks to you.” Earnest, Keith lets his tone slip into something warm and reverent. He lifts his hand, watching the trails his fingers leave down Lotor's cheek. “I learn for you.”

From above, the lights illuminate Lotor's hair a glimmering silver; catch the warmth in his eyes and the rare smile to match. There might as well be sunlight, real sunlight, for the heavy heat that blooms full and whole in his chest.

With both hands, he catches Lotor's face in the gentlest grip he knows, and eases him down. With grace, Lotor follows his lead, meeting the upward tilt of Keith's jaw to catch his mouth in a kiss, slow and soft.

All senses heightened, they can focus on the brush of lips, a sweet and honeyed pace. A set of fingers slides into Keith's hair, brushes the bangs back from his forehead, with more finesse than his clumsy ones could. When Lotor draws back for breath, Keith chases, and tastes the amused chuckle that spills fourth.

Conceding, he lingers, and presses his forehead to Keith's, waiting for his long-lashed eyes to open.

“You're precious.” Lotor whispers, breath tickling along the bridge of Keith's nose before he presses another kiss to it.

Keith bites his lip, and begrudges that the blush the compliment summons to his heated cheeks. Indignant, he returns the gesture, touching his lips to the tip of Lotor's nose. It only gets him another laugh, because Lotor has made his point.

“Don't make light of me,” He bites out the rebuttal, fangs bared. “I am what you've made of me.”

“And more,” Lotor corrects him gently, leaning his forehead against Keith's, so he can stare into those lovely, dangerous eyes. Arms slide around his neck, coy hands playing a tune down his back. “So much more.”

The room is large and empty but for them. Lights glow. Distant stars collide and crash; they don't care. There's promises to be made.

“Vrepit sa.” Keith breathes in mockery, and Lotor huffs through a snicker.

“Vrepit sa.”

 

–

 

On a bright white observation deck, he stands in the center. Boots flat on the sterile floor, and gloves almost too tight on his wrist. Dark eyes on dark maps, on twinkling lights. Surrounded by beeps and dings from a dozen different displays, it's hard to feel anything but small.

All is well, but maybe not for long; the air brims with nervous energy, and he pretends he's not tempted to drum his fingers, where they sit thoughtfully on his hip.

All is well, but the beginnings of a headache are pressing into his skull, where calculations and hypothetical worst-case scenarios, and unexpected surprises, have made their run over and over again.

All is well, but there's fear drumming soft and sure like a rabbit's heart in his beating chest.

“Shiro,” Allura's voice comes as confident as she must be, appearing from the eastern wing. She's determined, the blaze in her lioness eyes sparking his ash to flame. “I've contacted the coalition, and spoken to Slav and his team. We're as ready as we'll ever be. The time is now.”

Elsewhere, the Paladins are running their last tests, doing their final polishes. Probably, preparing for the worst, although no one wants to consider that.

It could be their last.

This could be their last.

Anytime could have been it, but this time, it really might be.

They're a tide pool against an ocean, but they have to win.

Shiro closes his eyes. Breathes in, and slowly, breathes out.

When he turns, Allura is focused on him. A calculated swipe of her hands, and more charts are drawn up and he can see, as well as she can, that everything is set. A chessboard about to descend into madness.

“Alright,” He concedes, hoping his certainty inspires her, too. “Let's give the order.”

All is well, but the time is now.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I don't know how to write. I'm half-asleep so apologies in advance.

    It must be something vital, for no one but the Prince and a handful of Major Generals to be the only ones permitted in the meeting room.

    A dozen or so of their accompanying guards line the hallway, shooting each other meaningful glances when the clock runs long, but not daring to utter a word. A handful of looks make it Keith’s way, less contemplative and more ominous.

    Eventually, the locks click open, and the door rushes open, so the warlords can emerge.

    Their faces are steel-set and grim. One could practically hear the grinding of their teeth, as they greet their lieutenants with clipped words and short, brusque nods.

    Lotor’s strides are as confident as ever, not slowing in his departure, with the good faith that Keith will fall in step right beside him.

    He does, of course, following Lotor’s lead of silence, and licks the corner of his dry mouth.

    When they turn a corner, Keith watches Lotor’s lips curl into a smirk.

    He doesn’t expect to know what it is anytime soon; Lotor will have to turn it over in his head a thousand times before he shares.

    And not before they work themselves deep into reports until near the middle of the night cycle. Not before Lotor bends Keith over his desk, fucking hissed curses out of him and watching the sweat bead along his back, over sweeps of muscle both broad and fine, watching Keith's shoulders shake with the pleasure of it all.

    And not before they shower together afterwards, full of snickers and eyes closed against the spray of water, while their hands and mouths still wander.

    And afterwards, it’s too easy to nearly forget, to drift off instead. The sheets sing lullabies to his skin, while the lights so dim and warm. Above his head, an array of screens flicker and chirp softly with every stroke of Lotor's fingers.

    “Lotor,” Mumbling against the pillow, he turns over to his stomach, “You need to rest.”

    “Soon.”

    “Soon.” Keith echoes softly. Lifting himself onto his elbows, he shakes his head in an effort to wake himself back up.

    “Sleep.” Lotor insists, and tugs the blankets up to where they've slipped down.

    “Mm.” Keith shifts closer, head on Lotor's chest, and grumbles, “Not until you do. What are you reading?"

    The texts that scroll past Lotor's screen are all Altean; the handful of characters he knows don't do much for comprehension. With his free hand, Lotor pushes Keith’s hair back, combing through it with his fingers into something resembling order.

    “Journals. Ancient Altean alchemists.” Lotor murmurs, squinting in thought at the letters as they come and go across the window. “Runes found on abandoned colonies and second hand accounts of their abilities.”

    “You found more of them?”

    “I gathered these some time ago, and haven't had the chance to study them properly yet. Remember how I mentioned Oriande, a while back? Supposedly the key to Altean magic? There's material suggesting it may be a real place, and that there were abilities some alchemists had beyond mere technological uses. Some mention how those most in tuned with the art could perform healing miracles, had life giving abilities.”

    “Do you give credit to these accounts?” Keith blinks himself back awake, stirred by the thought. “Is there really a way to reach it?”

    “I wouldn't dismiss anything for sure,” Lotor runs his nails loosely over Keith's bared shoulder, “I still have much to parse through.”

    “There's time tomorrow,” Keith assures him, “You’re straining yourself.”

    Lotor doesn't answer him.

    Maybe it’s tension that laces the touch to his skin, but there’s a shift in the air; he turns his eyes up to look. Waiting, he searches Lotor's narrowed eyes.

    “Soon, I will have less time than ever.”

    “....Why is that?”

    With a swipe of his hand, Lotor collapses the display and sets the data pad to the side. Another silent moment passes with a still beat, and an edge of ice creeps between Keith’s ribs.

    “My father has been dealt a critical blow. At this very moment, he is locked away and on the brink of death.”

    It takes a moment to absorb; then Keith shoots up, jaw slack.

    “Emperor Zarkon was defeated?”

    “Voltron and their allies were more formidable than they anticipated.” Lotor explains, “Those who know are trying to keep the truth hushed. But we've officially been called back to the main force. We will be departing shortly, in a few days time, so I may act as ruler in his stead until he is recovered.”

    Chewing his bottom lip, Keith catches Lotor's eyes. Holding steady, they speak with no words, until finally Keith names their reality.

    “This is the chance you've been waiting for.”

    “Yes,” Lotor agrees. “Our time approaches. This is an opportunity that I, that _we_ , cannot miss. My father is already weakened, and the Empire shaking beneath his feet. If we are to act, this is the time.”

    Solemnly, Keith nods, and allows his eyes to momentarily flutter closed when Lotor presses a hand to his cheek.

    “I must know, now more than ever,” Lotor’s voice is dropped low, with hope and maybe even fear, “That you are with me. This will not be pleasant, and will not be easy. We may fail, even if we don't dare imagine it. Tell me, that you and I walk together.”

    Without a second thought, Keith's hand covers Lotor's, presses it to his skin like a brand.

    “Always, my lord.” He promises, feeling the warmth against his cheek, “You never need to ask. I will follow you anywhere.”

    Devotion swells in him, weighs too much and too little at the delight that overtakes Lotor's dark eyes, the smile that pulls at his relieved mouth.

    Once again, Keith signs his life with words.

    “I follow you, as far as I can go.”

 

    –  


    “So what's it like?”

    “What's what like?”

    Ezor flicks a card into the pile in the center of their lazy circle, and draws another from the deck. With feigned disinterest, she clarifies, “Earth.”

    The journey back to the main forces was, as they had ominously predicted, was proving to be a long and rather dull one.

    Keith doesn't look up, mulling over the cards in his hands. It's rare they have any free time, much less all at once. It's quiet, in what passes for their private common room, with only a single communication monitor at the far wall.

    “I haven't been there for years.”

    “Yeeeeaaaah, that's not what I asked you.” She rolls onto her side and props herself up on an elbow. “The Paladins are from Earth. I wanna know what it's like.”

    Axca spares a glance in his direction, which he ignores. She shuffles her cards and reminds him, “It's your turn.”

    “I know, I know.” Cross legged, his fingers hover over a card before finally snatching one to discard. To Ezor, he answers, “It's just another planet.”

    “Boring,” She sing-songs, and blinks hopeful blue eyes. “You're the only one who actually knows where they're from. You should entertain us with Earth stories.”

    Keith meets her gaze with cold stone.

    “I grew up in the desert, and then an orphanage. I don't know what else to tell you.”

    _“Ugh_ ,” Ezor dramatically rolls onto her back, stretching her legs out. “Your need to be all dark and mysterious is _insufferable_.”

    “It's not—it's just not all that interesting,” Keith snaps, and startles when he senses movement behind him. Promptly smacking his cards flat against the floor, he leans sharply in Naarti's direction and hisses, “Using Kova to spy on my hand is _cheating_ , by the way.”

    Naarti cranes her neck towards him, head tilted mockingly; a second later, soft paws land on Keith's shoulder, and the cat's furred face brushes against his cheek. Distantly, the sensation of laughter tickles the edge of his consciousness.

    Keith scoffs, but scratches below the little creature's chin, before Kova returns to her perch on Naarti's shoulder with an agile leap.

    “...So, this desert.” Ezor sits her chin in her hand.

    “It's a _desert._ ” Keith tells her. “Dry sun. Sand. Rock. What else are you expecting?”

    “Oh my _god_ ,” She huffs. “You are so _boring.”_

“So then stop talking to me.”

    “You're such a _grump._ ”

    “What difference does it make?” Zethrid gruffly mutters.

Ezor takes a card. “I'm bored. And Keith's not fun at _all_.”

    “You're just mad you're in last place.”

    “Oh, shut up.”

    “We should take the chance to rest while we can,” Always practical, Axca reminds them, “We won't have much opportunity to do so once we get there.”

    “Yeah, yeah.”

 

    –

 

    “We'll wait.” Lotor tells them a few days later, as they prepare to disembark. “Avoid direct contact with the Paladins. Use caution. Do nothing with undue risk.”

    “Can we kill them?” Zethrid demands, “They might actually be a good fight.”

    Lotor words himself carefully. “Engage only if you absolutely must. Do not attack to kill. They may be useful to us, and I don’t want to draw their attention any more than necessary.””

    “That won't be a _problem_ , for some of us, will it?” Ezor drawls out her cheery tone, and Keith feels his ears burn.

    “It _won't_.” He turns on his heel to glare. She whistles, and raises her hands in mock alarm.

    “Enough,” Lotor reprimands, sending them firmly to silence. “We have our own plans to prepare first. We will handle them when the time is right.”

    The suspicion of the Galran soldiers who greet them is plain. Menacing eyes follow wherever they go.

    As little love for Prince Lotor exists on the outskirts of the Empire, there’s less here, by the main fleet. Rumors and gossip muddle the whispers around them, while his half-blooded Generals garner even less trust.

    And even less, for the General who walks closest to their Prince.

    Keith can’t blame them; many are still licking wounds, have lost friends and comrades to people who look a little too much like him.

    Still--

    _“Earthling traitor._ ”

    A footsoldier hisses the word at Keith as he walks by, and all he sees is red; Axca snatches him back by the shoulder, and whirls him back into their formation.

    “Keith,” She mutters sternly, her hand grounding and comforting on his arm, “Knock it off. We can’t afford any missteps here. Control yourself.”

    It takes a few seconds for the rush in his ears to subside. But he nods.

    “I know.”

    Once assured, they continue down the hall, ready for their newest briefing.

    Ezor pops over his shoulder with a grin.

    “...Want me to go punch that guy later? For like, totally unrelated reasons.”

    Keith snorts.

    –

 

    Lotor had told them it would be all about timing.

    Right timing, as it happens, can be hard to come by.

    Keith's on the other side of the galaxy, playing as if he were making routine rounds, while he tactfully scavenges for information, waiting for the moment to insert the disk that would take what they needed; and, leave a trace for them to watch from afar.

    A cheery little blink pops up on the monitor.

A possible technical malfunction?

He peers at the screen, frowning, before pulling up some routine diagnostic scans. For a few minutes, he lets them run, leaning against the console and playing with the chip between his fingers, watching.

Ultimately, they complete, having not found anything. Nothing, at least, that the backgrounds systems shouldn’t be able to fix automatically, if anything develops out of it.

But he stares at the results anyway. Something feels..off.

Rolling his jaw for a moment, thinking, he slips the disc into a pocket, and leaves to investigate where the ping originated. He has time to come back, if it really is nothing.

The further he walks his way through the halls, something indeed begins to feel wrong. There aren't even any sentries where there should be.

    Sure to quiet his footsteps, he continues down to the central system room, feeling mysteriously on edge and setting a hand to rest on the hilt of his sword.

    Slowly, he sets his weight forward, ready. Why does he feel so uneasy?

When Keith turns the corner, a white, huddled mass that shouldn't be at the base of a control panel rudely meets his shin. He barely avoids tripping over the thing, which squeaks loud enough that he whisks back in shock.

    A set of big, confused eyes blink at him from behind a visor, jumbled in a mess of green and white armor on the ground. A set of wires, that _also_ shouldn't be at the base of a control panel, ding innocently.

    “....”

    “....Hi?”

    Keith sighs, crosses his arms, and sets his weight back onto one heel. “This isn't the way I expected to run across a Voltron Paladin.”

    “And this isn't the way I expected to meet a, a uh, whatever you are.” The Paladin peers at him, before her eyes widen with shock. “Wait a second, are you... _human?_ ”

    A shock of disgust rankles his face; meanwhile, she’s on her feet, and staring at him.

    “What are you _doing_ here?! In _Galra_ armor?”

    Keith clenches his jaw, and reaches for his sword.

 

    –

 

    “Guys! _GUYS!”_

_“Pidge,_ what's wrong?”

    “I need some backup, _now_ , that's what!”

    The sound of Pidge's frantic footfalls echo in her ears, and beyond them, she hears another set of them behind her, catching up at terrifying speed.

    Launching her bayard to sink into the ceiling above, she uses the momentum to pull herself airborne. Suspended by the cord, she runs along the wall before she swings herself down and forward, around a corner, buying more distance and hopefully, more time.

    “I'm being chased,” she confirms, “And here's the thing, he looks _human_.”

    Like clockwork, the alarms go off in a symphony of horrifically loud blares.

Yeah, that seems about right.

    In the moment, keeping her head attached to her shoulders had seemed a priority to avoid tripping detection sweeps.

    “Human? _Human_ human? Like, _Earth_ human.” Hunk rumbles over the communicators.

    “Yes,” Pidge takes a glance at her radar, at the converging points where the paladins have decided to rendezvous for a hasty retreat. “But trust me, he's _not_ on our side.”

    It had, after all, taken all her efforts just to remain on her feet beneath a hailstorm of blows, swipes of a blade that came so fast, she could barely see them past the darkened blurs and the sharp sweeps of wind they left. Sparks flew off their weapons with every clash, and a sword edge bit a little too deeply into her armor for comfort.

    All she could do was parry, dodge, and wait for the moment to escape. He wasn't worth fighting to the end, not when she got what they came for. Had she stood her ground, she was pretty sure whose end it would have been.

    “Why would he be here? And helping the Galra?” In the background, she hears Lance's rifle firing through the red blare of the alarms.

    “I don't know.” Pidge frowns beneath her fringe of bangs, uselessly trying to blow the escaping hairs out of her eyes.

    She'd only barely caught him behind the thick metal doors she'd set to close as she ran, separating them with a echoing, metallic thud. The doors, two feet thick, assured her only slightly that her pursuer was halted.

    Now, with a few more gates slammed shut between them for comfort's sake, she allows herself a momentary pause. Just to catch her breath, just for her dangerously pounding heart to settle.

    Then she moves.

    She goes about disabling the alarms as she runs, her digital fingerprints still left in the system. She's flying down the hall, punching in the codes to close the hanger doors to cut off the sentry and solider reinforcements from arriving. Careful timing gets her just over the threshold into the hanger, just as the gates slam shut behind her a final time.

    The other paladins take notice of her arrival, but remain alert, glancing about the hanger bay for an ambush while she makes her way to them.

    “Did you get what we needed?” Shiro asks, once they've confirmed all her limbs are intact.

    “Affirmative!” She mock salutes, and whisks off her helmet for momentary relief, shaking out her hair before she replaces it.

“This guy you ran into, you sure he was human?” Lance cocks a hip.

“Sure looked like it.”

“Think there’s any talking it out with him?”

“Yeah. _No_. He was a little too interested in separating my head from my body for me to chance it.”

“Yeesh,” Hunk visibly shivers, “Don’t say it like _that_.”

“How else do you want me to say it?” Pidge punches his arm. “Dude was trying to kill me, sorry for being real about it.”

    With a set jaw, Shiro finally decides, “We'll talk more about it when we're out of here. We should--”

    The sound of grinding metal spirals their nerves into painful heights above. The echoing screech centers their attention on a shaft in the wall, where the gate is being ripped apart, sent flying and left to bang, clatter, skid loudly across the floor some twenty feet below.

    “ _...Welp._ ”

 

    –

 

    One, two, three....four.

    Keith narrows his eyes, straining to hear the conversation. The Green Paladin had led him right back to the others. At first, he'd cursed, and pounded, and hissed at the door she'dshut in his face.

    _Patience_.

Lotor has told him so many times.

_Be patient._

    Keith stood still for but a moment, and listened. The sound of closing doors tell him the direction the fleeing Paladin was headed; the facility map he pulls up, gives him a good idea where they must be making their escape from.

    A quick glance around finds him a grate in the wall, into a vent that would take him straight there.

    This was disobeying. But this was also a chance he couldn't ignore. He was the first of their generals to come across the Paladins in person, and this could be a chance to learn their skills, ascertain their worth. Intelligence they could so desperately use, as many of the relevant files had remained mysteriously and frustratingly locked out of even Lotor's clearance.

    ...And they were of Earth.

    Keith closes his eyes.

    He has to know more.

    When he opens them, it seems they're about to flee, and he's realized his time is short.

    He reaches, blade in hand, for the metal grate before him.

    The sound pauses their retreat, stalls them just enough for him to dismiss the thing from his path with one final kick.

    And then he's upon them.

    –

 

    A figure leaps from the exposed vent, landing gracefully. When he rights himself, face bared, he straightens out his back, his shoulders. A dark-eyed gaze lands upon the lot of them, sharp and ready to cut.

    “That him?”

    “A- _yup._ ” Pidge confirms, bayard shifting back into its weapon form.

    Keith tilts his head in curiosity, and rolls his shoulders as he takes a fearless step forward towards them. Twirling his sword with a nimble hand, he regards each Paladin in turn, with an expression that might have come across as bored, if the intent weren't so clear in the flashes of his blade as it catches the light.

    “I can't just _let_ you walk out of here,” Keith licks a fang, lip curling, settling his eyes on the Green Paladin, who had so infuriatingly evaded him once already.“With whatever information you just went ahead and swiped. You understand that, right?”

    Undeterred, she stares him down.

    Lotor had forbade his generals from killing the Paladins. But they didn't know that.

    “Would sure be nice if you did.”

    Keith looks at the speaker, a brown haired boy just barely about his age, rifle raised and aimed right at his chest.

    “It would be very nice of me.” He agrees, and takes another step forward. Faintly, he feels their unease swell. Likely, they had never expected to encounter someone....like him, and it was giving them pause.

    He would have no such reservations.

    “But you,” The Black Paladin breathes out, hesitantly, “You're _human._ Aren't you?”

    “You're _wrong,”_ Keith snarls, voice curdling, “I am _Galra._ ”

    With that, he charges – if anyone out of their team could survive a direct blow from him, it would be their leader. The _Champion_ , they had declared him in the fighting rings. The violet glow of a Galra arm raises to greet and deflect his first strike.

    _The witch_ , he notes with no shortage of spite.

    His foot barely touches ground before he's airborne again, blade swinging, and again his sword is met with an ear-splitting clang against metal. Locked, he grinds his boots down against the floor, and that's when he's left staring into the eyes of his opponent.

    “ _Why?_ ” The Black Paladin questions, “You’re clearly not full Galra. Why would you fight for them?”

    “I don't answer to you.” Keith snaps, and swerves on his back leg, enough to build the momentum for a swift and brutal kick that connects. His opponent stays on his feet, but the breath is knocked out of him in a gasp.

    Against the weight and the armor, Keith knew it wouldn't have been enough to topple him; but it gave him the opening, and his sword raises for the strike--

    And a gunshot passes dangerously close to his face.

    Keith turns, briefly, and sees it's the same Paladin as before. He was a good marksman, if he was confident enough to take such a shot with his leader so close.

    That, or just stupid.

    “ _Hey!_ ” He calls. Whether or not he means to be mocking, or his voice is just that annoying, Keith isn't sure. “Back off him!”

    “Okay.” Keith agrees, and lunges in his direction.

    To his credit, the Paladin holds his ground, firing off shots that come so close, Keith can feel the warmth of the energy on his face, sparks of its power scuttling over the edges of his armor. Speed building, he's closing the distance in seconds, and takes to the air with a leap.

    _“Lance--!”_ Someone calls, frantic.

    Lance ignores it, eyes focused on Keith as he makes his descent, in an arc that would land right atop him. Stubbornly, he's still got his rifle raised, poised and ready.

    As natural as if working another appendage, Keith switches his grip on the hilt of his sword, and shifts his pose midair.

    The boy would fire—he'd miss. Keith would take his arm for the mistake.

    _Avoid killing them_ , Lotor had said; but dismemberment wasn't certain death.

The shot blazes right past him; he lands, crouched and ready to pounce, arm swinging upwards, along the path of his target--

Brown eyes go wide, panicked.

"NO!"

    Something strikes the blade with such force, it nearly drives the sword from his hand.

    Wrist screeching pain, Keith barely has time to dive out of the way of the Yellow Paladin’s cannon fire.

    When he recovers his footing, his eye catches the moment which the Green paladin's retracting her weapon, cord whipping the blade back to its holster. They catch eyes, and Keith grits his teeth.

    He's about to make for her instead, until he's eclipsed overhead by a shadow. Forced to leap, flip his way out and away from harm, he just barely avoids the glowing strike of Galra tech. It leaves a sizzling, fist-sized crater in the floor, and without a moment to breathe, he's engaged again with the Black Paladin.

    “You should probably finish what you started with me, first,” He reprimands Keith in challenge, and the punch to his pride turns literal when a fist cracks against his rib.

    Sheer force sends him through the air—he lets the pain have him for a split second. The next, he's landing heavily against his side, hard enough to slide him away, regretfully far from his lost sword.

    But he has no more time than that to recover, because in the time he takes for his feet to find the floor again, the Black Paladin is on him again, striking with merciless precision. He dodges, swerves, evades.

    Not knowing where it comes from-- he smirks.

    “If you so insist.”

 

    –

 

    This is unreal. They're supposed to be saviors of the universe, but they're getting rhythmically and systematically walloped by a single Galra officer who, if getting way too close for comfort with those swords is any indicator, is barely Lance's height.

    “Well,” Pidge wheezes, wobbling her way back to her feet, “This is embarrassing.”

    The armor certainly marks some sort of status, even if they don't know what that is, yet. There was a reason Pidge, hardly a pushover herself, had chosen to flee.

    The four back themselves together, Shiro ostensibly in front, arm protectively barricading them from the stranger. He's some thirty feet away, and closing in slowly, as if he still considered them some kind of threat. Which, clearly, they aren't.

    A blade twirls in the air; he catches it by the handle without a glance.

    “Show-off.”

    “We need a plan here,” Pidge's device beeps, and she fiddles with her hovering keyboard. “These codes holding the doors closed won't last forever. We have maybe about another minute and a half until--"

    “Until we have much more, equally as friendly company?” Hunk finishes for her, adjusting his helmet with a groan, the result of a flying roundhouse kick that had sent him spinning. Prior to seeing this shit with his own two goddamn eyes, Lance is pretty sure he's only seen something so ridiculous in old movies.

    “Paladins?” Allura's voice cuts through the tension, “What's your status? What's going on? I haven't gotten your signal yet.”

    “We need a pickup quicker than expected.” Shiro explains, harried, “We got the data, but we also have company, and are about to have more.”

    “We're closing in with the castle,” She replies, and confirms, “I'll come with the Blue Lion to retrieve you; be ready.”

    “Roger.”

    “Uh, so,” Hunk's voice wavers, gloves creaking where he tightens his grip on his cannon. “What's the plan here? What're we doing to avoid being chopped up while we wait for Allura?”

    “I'll hold him off,” Shiro decides, already angling his foot to break into a sprint, “Lance, back me up. Pidge, hold off the security systems the best you can. Every second counts. Hunk, get the gates open for Allura.”

    “Got it.”

    And then Shiro is off, charging with a fury as the rest of them scatter behind him.

    With a practiced slip into form, the Galra narrows his eyes at his approach, swords whisking into position.

    They collide; a screeching blade, a booming echo; the opening bell to their newest fight for life.

    –

 

    There's something almost entrancing about watching them; it's almost like a dance.

    If, you know, it wasn't a fight to the death.

    Slowly, they're backing towards the door of the hanger; Pidge, frantically trying to fight back against the Galra technicians trying to undo her locks, even as she wrestles them for control. Hunk, working at the gate controls, readying their escape.

    Lance stays in front of them, rifle trained on the speeding blur trading blow after blow with their leader. Carefully, he slides around their perimeter; when he can, he takes a shot. Just to distract, just to keep those speeding swords from unceremoniously replacing any more of Shiro's limbs.

    “You,” The Galra hisses, “Are becoming a _nuisance_.”

    More than once, he tries to make a break for Lance, only to have Shiro forcibly drag his attention back with brutal attacks of his own.

    His brow has been so tense, for so long, it feels like it might really stick that way, like his mother used to caution with a wagging finger; but he's waiting, weight on his back leg and bracing for the moment.

    Shiro is holding his ground; the soldier been trouncing the four of them combined, and it was maybe only lucky he had been too preoccupied to notice their maneuvers. If all went well, they'd be free of him in a matter of minutes.

    This human-Galra soldier was no Zarkon, but he was a bitch of a mini-boss.

    Behind him, Pidge shrieks in dismay, and the doors around them start to give way. Soldiers and sentries start streaming in numbers he doesn't want to stop to consider. Barely a second later, the hanger door starts its slow-going groan. Behind it, the second hanger door twitches, about to follow suit.

    “Go, now!” Lance knows without turning the Blue Lion will be there, waiting to ferry them. Without hesitation, Pidge and Hunk are running, their jet packs whisking them off towards safety.

    Stunned, the human Galra soldier turns to stare at them in disbelief.

    “You--”

    Then, promptly, Shiro's abandoning their match, sprinting towards Lance. The flash of sheer _offense_ on the soldier's face is almost funny. It would have been, if the next second didn't mean him taking off after him.

    “Lance, come _on,”_ Shiro snaps, barely reaching him before Pidge's bayard _thunks_ into the side of a nearby cargo trunk for them to use as a lifeline.

    Eyes still locked on their target, the Galra-human glaring, sprinting at an unbelievable speed. He’s catching up to Shiro, who’s still yelling at Lance to _run_.

    He’s raising his swords, a step behind Shiro, leaping into the air and readying for the strike--

    Lance fires, and the shot cracks as it connects, exploding the pauldron of his armor in a burst of shrapnel. Behind him, he hears cheering as the man is thrown back from the force..

    For a moment, it almost looks like it wasn't enough; he struggles to right himself, blood splattered over his face.

    He bleeds red.

Then they’re frantically running, lungs on fire as he and Shiro burst into the air by the force of their jetpacks, to tumble into the cargo hold of the Blue lion.

 

    –

    The rest is a blur, as they avoid open enemy fire, re-orient themselves to safe distance, and through a wormhole.

    It's not until they're back in the Castle, their armor being discarded for maintenance and cleaning, that Hunk claps him on the shoulder. They've all got a fair share of souvenirs; bruises and aches, chips in their armor and cuts that come dangerously close to skin.

    “Man, that guy was _not_ about to give up. Scary dude.” He shudders, for effect. “Nice shot, buddy.”

    “Yeah, nice that you _missed_ ,” Pidge snorts, and sets her glasses on the bridge of her nose. “A head shot would have been better.”

    Lance grinds his teeth, and turns his back to them.

    “I didn't miss.”

    –

 

    “I'm glad you think this is funny.” Keith groans as he sits up, shoulder throbbing beneath its heaps of bandages.

    “Are you kidding?” Ezor pauses the melody of her laughter just long enough to lean forward, and flick a lock of hair off his forehead. “It's _hilarious._ You got your ass _handed_ to you.”

    “Shut up.”

    “Oh, relax,” She waves a hand, and although he hates it, he can't stay mad. Her eyes, bright and blue, are smiling as much as her mouth. “I _am_ glad you're okay.”

    Acxa's attention turns to his shoulder. Quieter, she chides, “This isn't like you, Keith. Taking four of them on by yourself was plain reckless.”

    At that, Keith only shrugs his good shoulder.

    “...It's _kinda_ like him...”

    The machines beep softly, the glowing numbers remotely marking his vitals. Alive. Unhappy, but alive.

    The shot from the rifle had destroyed his armor, and fractured the bones beneath it.

    It would recover, but in the meantime...

    “Good luck explaining this to Lotor, by the way.”


End file.
